Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Alberto
I’ve stopped pucks flying at my face at ninety miles an hour, but a closed bedroom door might actually be the thing that breaks me.
The worst part isn’t that Callaway is in her bed—it’s that a part of me wants to be there too. With them.
Listen, I’m not jealous of him. Not really.
I just feel . . . left out.
Which is a pathetic thing to admit for a grown man who gets paid to stare down breakaways and keep his pulse from doing stupid things. I’m supposed to be disciplined. Contained. Built for pressure.
And yet here I am, standing in the living room like a pathetic man, trying to listen to the low murmur of voices behind Vesper’s door, and feeling something ugly and hot crawl up my spine.
What happened to being a fucking family?
I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m left out while those two are clinging to each other, sharing space like it’s easy. Like the world hasn’t spent years teaching us that closeness comes with a price tag.
This definitely feels like a “fuck you, Alberto.”
Which, honestly, I should be used to by now.
All my life, it’s been a “fuck you.” From my parents dying, to the foster system, my dad’s family, and . . . well, my uncle tried, but he was absent. The man liked his singlehood. He didn’t care much about having a family life. He just took me in because his sister’s child needed a home.
In adulthood, it’s been the teams. They try to chew me up and spit me out and say, “It’s nothing personal, it’s the game.”
So I’ve learned to be alone.
Alone is predictable.
Alone doesn’t leave you standing there with your hands empty, wondering what you did wrong.
But then there’s Vesper.
She burst into my life loudly. The way she does everything—bright, sarcastic, too fast, laughing at the wrong moments, and somehow making those moments survivable anyway.
Like she could talk her way through any locked door, like the universe would eventually get tired of resisting her and just let her in.
She got under my skin.
Like a compass. A pull that has always been there—and I just kept pretending it wasn’t. Until she became my Vesper.
God, even thinking that feels dangerous. Possessive. Ridiculous. And still—true in a way my bones recognize.
It isn’t just that I love her.
It’s that my body knows her. My brain knows her. The part of me that doesn’t speak, the part that only reacts, knows her with the certainty of the tide.
She is the one person I can’t shake, because losing her isn’t a possibility I can tolerate.
It would break me—living like this.
Skirting the edges of her life. Existing in fragments. A call. A text. A visit that ends too soon. I tell myself it’s enough because it has to be. Because I don’t know how to stand next to her every day without falling apart.
When I lived in Boston, I drove to her in New York more times than I admitted to anyone.
Sometimes because her voice changed, just a fraction, and I couldn’t rest until I saw her breathing in front of me.
Other times because I needed to feel her hand in mine for ten minutes and pretend that was a life.
But now it’s different.
Now everything is closer. Louder. Impossible to ignore.
And then there’s Callaway.
He knows how to survive a family—despite the fact his is four assholes with a mission statement: ruin his day. The man knows how to take up space without apology, and how to make people feel seen right where they are.
Right now he’s with Ves, being . . . what?
Comfort, warmth, someone who understands her? He’s good at it, filling empty spaces, making you feel like you belong in that moment, with him.
It’s something that hooked me the moment I met him. He made the impossible possible while I was around him. Camp became a safe space I wanted to be in because I could be a part of something.
He made me believe I could breathe there. That I wasn’t just tolerated.
And then I fell in love with him.
And her.
And we fucked everything up beyond repair.
I’m staring out the living room window, city lights blurring together, when I hear footsteps.
“I knew someone was thinking way too loud out here.”
I don’t turn.
“You okay, big guy?”
“Don’t call me that,” I mutter. I don’t have the energy to unpack why it still gets under my skin.
“I always did.”
“We were kids.”
“Do you tell Ves not to call you that?” he asks, pushing.
“That’s between her and me.” I rake a hand through my hair. Why is he here?
“Right,” he says, and there’s something almost wounded in it. “Because I wouldn’t be part of the two of you.”
I finally snap. “What the fuck do you want?”
“You want the full list, or just what’s urgent?” That tone—teasing, loaded—tells me exactly where this is going, and I want no part of it.
“Okay,” he says lightly. “Bad mood. If it bothered you that I stayed in her bed, you could’ve said something.”
I stay quiet.
“You could’ve offered your room,” he adds, voice dropping. “I would’ve gone willingly—big guy.”
This time I can’t help but turn.
And, fuck.
He’s standing there, shirtless. Just a pair of low-slung athletic shorts—mine—and zero shame.
Cally is temptation dressed down—barefoot, golden skin glowing under the ambient light, every inch of him built from years of training and sin. His abs contract slightly when he breathes, like his body’s already reacting to mine.
His chest is broad, sculpted, and so familiar it makes my mouth dry. I know how it feels to bite into those pecs. I know how his back arches when I drag my tongue over the trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband.
And that tattoo—fuck—ink curls low across his ribs, disappearing into the V of his hip like it’s daring me to come find the rest.
I want to lick it.
Trace it with my mouth, my hands, my cock.
I want to press him into the wall and mark every inch of that body until he’s trembling beneath me
His thighs are thick—hockey-built, powerful—and slightly spread like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
Every inch of him is carved muscle and careless sin.
His chest rises and falls like he’s barely keeping himself still, and his abs flex with each breath as if they’re remembering what it’s like to grind against my hips.
And, fuck, I want to fall to my knees and kiss down his stomach. Lick the crease of his thigh. Worse, I want to pull those shorts off and swallow every filthy, broken sound he gives me.
I want to ruin him, break him apart.
And the worst part?
I’m pretty sure he knows it.
That smirk on his lips—half dare, half promise—is Callaway Winthrop at his most dangerous.
He licks his lips, slow and shameless, his eyes dragging down my body like he’s choosing which part to devour first.
“Cat got your tongue, babe?” He smirks, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
I hate that the tone makes my pulse spike.
I hate that I want to lick his throat and sink my teeth into his skin until he begs.
Be strong, I tell myself. You don’t want this, him. Not again.
It’s selfish, but hockey is the only thing that’s ever stayed.
If I lose it, I lose the one place I know exactly who I am—crease, angles, breath, silence.
The league has already treated me like luggage: shipped, unpacked, shipped again. One whisper in the wrong ear, one photo, one rumor that I’m not the man they want selling jerseys, and they’ll just stop calling.
And the worst part is my body doesn’t care about any of that when he looks at me like this.
He moves closer—slowly. Like a predator that already knows the ending.
“You keep saying no,” he says softly, licking his lips, eyes locked on my mouth, “which I respect. But your body is asking for something else. And I’m really good at giving people what they need.”
“I didn’t say—”
“I won’t cross the line,” he cuts in. “But say the word, babe, and I’ll fuck you until you remember how to breathe.”
My resolve cracks.
I shake my head, trying to ground myself. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand plenty.” His gaze drifts along my jaw, not touching, almost touching. “Being alone feels safer. Nobody gets hurt. But every time you shut people out, you break them a little. Ves won’t say it because she’s scared you’ll disappear on her the way you did on me.”
The words hit.
“You left me,” he says quietly.
“I didn’t.”
He laughs without humor. “Sure felt like it. As if I wasn’t enough. Like I was a mistake you wanted gone.” His eyes narrow. “You fucking used me—and left me.”
“I never used you,” I snap. “We left each other. It was mutual.”
“No,” he says, stepping in. “It wasn’t. You regretted that night. You made me feel like I imagined everything. You punished me for wanting you.”
“You pushed for it.”
“I thought we were ready—” he presses his lips together, looking at me as if searching for something— “The three of us.”
“Ready for what?”
“For loving each other. For giving you everything I had—my body, my heart—both of you.” His voice shakes. “I’d already done it.”
“It couldn’t happen,” I say, and the words taste like failure. “Men like us don’t get that. Hockey players don’t love men. We survive. We shut it down.”
“You chose the jersey over us,” he says. “You sound just like my fucking family.”
“You think we would’ve survived?”
“We’ll never know,” he fires back. “You made the decision for us.”
“It wouldn’t have worked.”
“Still won’t. Not until you stop hiding and start loving the two people who never walked away.”
“You failed me too,” I growl. “All those jokes and punches the next morning just proved that I was right.”
“I defended myself,” he snaps. “You looked at me like I was nothing. Like I repulsed you.”
“You don’t,” I breathe. “You never repulsed me. I looked at you like that because if I didn’t—if I let myself look at you the way I wanted—there was no going back.”
That’s when he grabs me—rough, certain, like he’s done waiting.
My back hits the window with a dull thud, cool glass against overheated skin, and then his mouth is on mine. No hesitation. No breath between. Just heat and tongue and need.
I kiss him back like I’m drowning in it—hands flying to his waist, his hips, anywhere I can touch.
His body presses into mine, all muscle and history, and I moan into his mouth because there’s nothing careful about this.
It’s raw. Starving. The kind of kiss you give someone when you’ve run out of words.
He grips my jaw, tilting my face, biting down on my lower lip before licking over it like he regrets it. His mouth tastes like breathlessness, like memory. Like everything I tried to forget.
His hand trails down my side, fingers splaying across my stomach, and I buck into him because we’re both hard now—friction and fire between us, desperate for more. My hands slide up his back, nails digging in just enough to make him gasp against my tongue.
He groans into my mouth. “Fuck, Monty.”
I gasp as his thigh presses between mine, as his hand grips my jaw, holding me there while he kisses me like he’s punishing us both.
And I let him.
Because I never stopped wanting this.
I just got really good at pretending I could live without it—him.
Callaway kisses like he’s been starving and just remembered the taste of food. His hands are already roaming, palms sliding over my ribs, my back, gripping my hips like he needs leverage to keep himself upright.
I groan into his mouth when his fingers hook under the waistband of my shorts, skin on skin, his thumbs brushing the lines where my body reacts without permission. I’m hard—aching, obvious, trapped against damp fabric—and the sound I make is humiliatingly desperate.
“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressing to mine. “You’re already like this for me.”
The knee between my legs presses up, slow and knowing, and I lose the last clean thought I had. I rock into him without meaning to, grinding against his thigh, chasing friction like it might save me.
He smiles against my mouth—soft and ruined. “That’s it. Let me feel you.”
His hand cups me. Fully this time. Fingers curling, squeezing until my breath stutters and my hips jerk forward.
I grab his wrist, not to stop him—never to stop him—but to ground myself in the reality of what he’s doing to me.
He’s hard too. I can feel it through the thin barrier of our shorts when I pull him closer, when my thigh drags against him and he hisses like I’ve touched something raw.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “That’s what you do to me. Every fucking time you’re around, babe.”
My hand slides down his stomach, over the muscle I know by heart, finding him. He bucks into my palm, a low sound ripping out of his chest that makes my vision blur.
“Monty,” he groans. “Touch me. Don’t stop.”
I stroke him once, slow and full, feeling him thicken under my hand, slick at the tip already, and the urge to drop to my knees nearly guts me. I want to take him into my mouth, hear him lose control, feel his hands in my hair again.
I want it bad.
His fingers tighten around me, thumb brushing just right, and my knees threaten to give out.
And that’s when it hits me.
Reality.
Vesper’s face flashes behind my eyes. Her smile. Her exhaustion. The way she trusts us to not tear her apart while we’re trying to figure ourselves out.
If I let this go any further—if I come undone in Callaway’s hands, if I let him finish me off here, desperate and shaking—there’s no pretending later.
No rewinding. No clean way to explain what this means for the three of us when things are still in shambles.
When I’m not even sure if we’ll be able to work anything out that seems like a family for her.
My hand drops from him. I step away even though my body screams in protest, even though I’m still painfully hard and want to crawl right back into him.
“Monty—” he starts, reaching for me.
“I can’t,” I say, breath rough. “Fuck—I want this. I want you. But not like this. Not if it turns us into something that might hurt her in the long run.”
He stares at me, chest rising fast, eyes dark and glossy with want. “You think this doesn’t already hurt?”
“It will if we don’t stop,” I say quietly. “If I cross that line again without knowing where we all stand, I’ll ruin it. I’ll ruin us—again.”
Silence stretches between us, thick with everything we didn’t finish.
Callaway drags a hand through his hair, jaw tight, still hard, still close enough that I can smell him. “You’re killing me.”
“I know,” I admit. “You’re doing the same to me.”
He steps back at last, putting space between our bodies even though neither of us wants it. “This isn’t over,” he says. “We have to work this through.”
I nod, because he’s right.
But right now we have to stop—wanting him isn’t the problem. It’s figuring out how to want him without destroying the only two people I’ve ever wanted to keep.